When the Dead Do Not Rest
by PrinceofElsinore
Summary: "They do not know. What happens in the night. What has happened for so long, even before…" 18th century human AU, based on the legend of the Nachzehrer. Warning: themes include suicide, implied incest, autocannibalism, and general creepy undead stuff. Rotting bodies, the like.


_Cold._

_Feeling nothing._

_Seeing nothing. Not with eyes sunk into skull._

_But between feeling and seeing there is something. Sensing. Smell of earth and rot. Wood encasing._

_Hearing. Not sounds, but shadows of sounds. Their imprints left in air. Maggots chewing. Sounds of decay._

_And far above, bird singing. Hear its song of death. Trilling, shuddering, begging Death to come another day._

_But He is here. He is in everything. Roots of grass just waiting. Pitter-patter of children feet on the road. Death is the natural state of all; life, a brief, violent flash, disrupting the peace of resting things._

_Taste: dirt. But there is something there. Against cold lips. Oh yes…_

_The shroud. Take it between your teeth. Before they putrefy, before they fall out. Ah, cloth and earth. Take it in. Consume as you are consumed. By bugs, rats, worms. Consuming, dying. This is the natural state of things._

_You consume even in death._

_So hungry…_

…

Whispers.

There are whispers in the next room. Have been, ever since…

Ludwig presses his ear to the door. But he already knows.

_The boy, there is something wrong with the boy._

_Ever since…_

These are the words that whisper themselves in his skull when he drifts to sleep.

_Should we—the doctor—or the priest—_

_But you know it was his brother that—and when they buried him—_

_It could be—you know what they say about those things—_

_Disturbances?—he's getting sick—_

_I always did wonder about those two._

Glimpses. Nothing but glimpses of words, glimpses of faces, pale and frightened.

Almost as pale as his brother's was. When they put him in the ground.

His mother's worried eyes hover over him; he feels them. But when he looks at her they dart away like startled blackbirds.

Faces in doorways retreat when he walks by. He has been out less often, ever since…

But when he must go to the market, or the fields, or the church—don't look at the belfry, not there—the women clutch their shawls tighter, pull their children close. The men tense the thick muscles of their shoulders and backs, watch him out of the corner of their eyes.

They smell Death on him.

That is what Ludwig thinks. They see it in the deep shadows of his face.

And they think, because his brother is in the ground…

_I always had a funny feeling about that one—did you see his eyes, when they caught the light?—unnatural—_

_How did they say he died—don't believe a word of it—that was no accident—_

_I heard—the priest—not consecrated—Unchristian death—_

_And you know what they say about those—just look at his brother—_

Ludwig keeps his eyes on the ground as he goes. He is a ghost already, saying nothing, but hearing everything.

They do not know. What happens in the night. What has happened for so long, even before…

Some of them guess. But they can prove nothing. They say nothing; it is unspeakable.

…

_Eat._

_Fibers like grass, snap, disintegrate between molars. They are blackened, dissolve._

_Jaw like the pendulum of a clock; it works with gears. Cannot stop. It is unthinkable._

_Something new; a shift. It is an arm, stiff with death, bones creak. Bring it closer. Smell. Flesh, oh yes…_

_Flesh you remember. Flesh is soft, flesh is sweet._

_Flesh was warm, now is cold._

_But when it was warm… Ah, remember. Remember: a glimpse of nightmare Life. A moment of rest, peace, with his flesh, so young, so warm. Warm flesh beneath warm hands, now cold. Warm murmurs against warm lips, now cold. Oh yes…_

_Flesh is sweet. Now cold._

_Eat._

…

Ludwig stays awake, as long as he can. He is bone-tired, must sleep. But he is frightened of the night, of sleep, of dreams.

The dreams come every night.

He hears the toll of the church bell—in the belfry—up on the hill. Midnight. Just a little longer, but his eyes burn and oh just to close them…

No. He can sleep during the day. Day is safe. Then, the dreams do not come. He can stay in bed if he feigns faintness. Yes, that is what he will do.

He feels it before he sees it.

At first he is confused; he is awake, isn't he? How can it be here, again, now? Or has he slipped into slumber without realizing…? The line between sleep and waking is blurred, these days.

Ludwig doesn't dare look at the figure in the doorway of his room. The smell rolls off of it in nauseating waves, so sickly sweet it makes Ludwig gag.

He lies, petrified. There is no escape from what comes next. He has tried before; oh he has tried, only to startle awake and find himself outside on the cold, muddy ground, not knowing how he came there.

The figure draws closer.

It casts no shadow for there is no light in its presence. And yet Ludwig feels its darkness slip over him, press on his chest and hold him down to the bed.

He wants to scream; he cannot.

_Ludwig._

It speaks with a voice that is not heard but felt, in the bones.

_Look at me._

He cannot.

Closer, it is drawing closer, so close now. He feels its breath on his cheek, cold as Death itself. It is the slow, freezing air of a January night, the kind that creeps into burrows and isolated cottages and leaves frozen corpses in its wake.

Ludwig shivers.

_Look at me._

His eyes are open wide, staring fixedly. He wants to shut them; he cannot. The figure is just at the edge of vision.

And then he feels them. Long, cold fingers slithering over his chest. They seem to penetrate his nightshirt and touch his very skin.

The figure leans over him, staining the blackness blacker. It is right there, just above him, just above his unblinking eyes. Ludwig can feel it staring at him, into him.

The body of the thing settles down on him with all its crushing weight. It is cold, so cold it stops all thought. But Fear remains. Fear is not thought; it is a single, taught line of hysteria forced into silence.

The fingers are on his face, in his hair; he cannot pull away. The stench is in his nose, in his lungs, filling him with its poison and he cannot breath this putrid air that clings to his tongue and cakes his throat.

_Ludwig._

Ludwig's heart beats like rabbit feet, prey frantic to escape. This is what he fears most. This moment. When the thing shows him its face.

He does not want to see. He does not want to exist.

But he cannot look away.

There is no light from the window on this starless night, but as the figure shifts it is as if a beam of moonlight falls across its face.

He wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to blind himself and never have to look at this—

His brother's face.

But not the brother he knew. The eyes, once so fiery, now dull and sunken. The lips, once so full, now shriveled and blackened. The skin, once so pale and smooth, now blotchy and stretched tight over bone. The band of purple across the neck.

One terrified, thin stream of air passes Ludwig's lips, taking the barely audible form, _Gilbert…_ He is unable to say more.

_Yes._

That is all it says, this thing that is and is not his brother.

And then it smothers him. Presses down on him and _into_ him in ways Ludwig does not understand—he does not know where his body ends and his brother—not his brother—begins. They are one flesh, they are merged. Ludwig is possessed, he is blinded, deaf, no room for anything but the sensation of this thing flooding into his very veins. He is feverish, he is freezing, he is writhing, he is thrashing. Too hot, too cold, inescapable, inexplicable, terrifying, terribly wonderful.

_Why, why,_ he wants to ask, but his throat is sealed, choked with panic.

But the thing hears him. It is in him, in his head.

_Come to me. Come rest with me. Let us be at peace together._

Ludwig shakes, he shudders, wants to scream _no! You're not him!_ but he is not heeded. It is too much now, it is unbearable, it is almost at an end—

_I am waiting for you, brother…_

And suddenly Ludwig jerks up in bed, gasping and drenched in sweat and thick stickiness on his thighs.

Gilbert is gone.

…

_There was a time…_

_A time of sweet sighs. Of softness, of warmth. Of a boy, remember…_

_The gray veil of death has passed over it. Cannot reach it._

_Desire it. Loathe it. Loathe all that lives. All that disrupts the sweet black void of sleep._

_Oh, to sleep. Embrace oblivion._

_It is impossible. Hunger. Ravenous. Cannot sleep. Must consume…_

_Gnaw at bone. Leave marks of teeth, gnashing. Crack it in your molars, suck out marrow. Take a strip of flesh, tear it, easily. Maggots crawl off as you chew._

_Feel, stronger. Need, more sustenance._

_A single, obsessive thought: the boy. The boy and hunger, they are one. Hunger for him…_

_The boy is Ludwig._

_Ludwig is brother._

_Brother is flesh._

_Flesh is life…_

_Come sleep with me, brother. I am waiting._

…

_He's been this way for weeks now—can't you do anything—_

_I am sorry—nothing more I can do—pray for your son._

_He is in God's hands._

The doctor leaves.

Ludwig lies in bed. He is burning. Burning from the inside out. A fire rages in him—it is the flame of the Devil.

_He is in God' hands._

His mother gazes at him from the doorway, thin wan face creased beyond her years. She knows God has abandoned her son. Both her sons, long ago.

She disappears from the frame of the door, silent as a shadow, before Ludwig can rest his eyes on her, reach out to her. That is how she has learned to move in her own home: tread lightly, tread lightly.

Ludwig knows that she knows. What used to happen in this room. What still happens. Except that now it is nothing but a twisted mockery, cruel parody, macabre echo, of what it was. When they shared this room. Before…

The band of purple, like a brand against pale throat. Ludwig remembers.

He shudders, but he is not cold. He is burning.

Mad.

He will go mad with this flame, licking at his insides, fueling the nightmares of waking.

The purple band. The silhouette in the belfry: an image he is sure he never saw. When did it come to him? In a dream? Or a vision?

The belfry; the church. The cemetery. The ground, the grass, tipped with frost. They are all Gilbert.

_Brother… Why…_

The smell of earth, of cold, of winter coming. Of dead leaves, of rotting things.

The sound of bugs, of worms, of chewing, so loud, ringing in his ears, devouring—

The belfry. The cemetery. The chill of fog-thick air on fevered skin.

The chewing. The munching. Grunting, grotesque, gulping.

Ludwig follows the sound. He is drawn to it; repelled by it. Constant gnawing, he must get rid of it—

_Gilbert—_

A single, frenzied thought. _My brother is in the ground—_

Digging, digging, with fingers and nails. The earth is not yet frozen. The sound is underneath, rises up all around him. Eating, eating… _The bugs are eating my brother._

Clawing at dirt, it grows louder—grunting of pigs, of foul things, consuming—

_No—Stop—_

He can hear every maggot crawling, every tiny mouth gorging. Feeding. He is drowning in their noise. Too many, so close, oh God wriggling their way up out of the dirt, onto his hands and arms and covering his flesh, feasting, drowning him, filling his mouth and they are engulfing him, whittling him away to nothing with their noise and their tiny sharp mouths.

They drown the sound of his screams.

…

_Hello, brother._

_You have found me._

_Come rest in my arms. Arms stripped of flesh, waiting. The kiss of Death is sweet._

_Let us lie in the eternal bed of my putrefying flesh. Our flesh. Consume with me. Let us consume each other…_

_Let me feel you in my ribcage, in my dead mouth. The hollows of my corpse ache for you._

_Let me taste your tender skin, let me suck the marrow of your bones. Oh, taste me too, the lengths of my intestines, the still muscle of my heart._

_And in a century, think where we will be._

_Lie in my bleached bones. Crumble to one dust. We shall be together, forever…_

_You are so close to me now, dear brother._

…

Through a haze, Ludwig sees: Dark forms. Pale faces. They seem familiar… yes: Mother. Father. The priest.

A rattling, as of dry bones. He realizes his teeth are chattering. Strange: the flame still burns within him. It is indistinguishable from ice.

His body is sore, he is drained. Something touches his shoulder—a hand, warm, gentle.

_My child—so alone—out in the cold—_

_Look at his fingers—look at the blood—_

He is suddenly aware of his surroundings. Dirt cakes him, cold grass scratches him. Outside, again.

A cold gray stone at his head.

_Trying to dig up the grave—Lord have mercy—_

_How did he come here—in this state—how did he slip by—_

_Devil's work, Devil's work!_

He is lying on his brother's grave. Deep gouges scour the earth beneath him. From his own hands, he realizes. And now the first whispers of pain insinuate themselves in his mind; his fingers are bleeding, some nails have been ripped off.

_In the church, he will be safe. Come, let us pray for your son. Pray for his soul._

…

_Do you remember?_

_That night, in the belfry. Ah, but no, you were not there. Only in my mind._

_Oh Ludwig, sweet Ludwig, I could not stand it. Do you know what it is to have God forsake you? To be tormented by your sins! To have your demons breathing down your neck…_

_You were always my demon, my angel. My sweetest sin…_

_Death was not swift, that night. He was not kind. It is not in His nature. He is not kind, He does not love. But He is merciful and accepts all His children into His deep embrace. Now how I crave it; abandon myself to Him, as I intended that night._

_To forget…_

_But leaving behind one's sins is not so easy._

_Ah, Ludwig, why do you tremble with fear? Why do you whither at my gaze? I only wish to show you…_

_I will find you, one way or another._

_I am strong now, nourished by my own dead flesh, by your own flickering, dwindling life._

_I am awake._

…

The last of the day's light filters through the latticed windows of the church. Ludwig lies in a cot at the back of the pews, watching shadows slip inexorably up the white-washed walls.

The priest has bandaged his bloodied fingers, but Ludwig hardly feels them. He is too concentrated on counting the seconds as they tick by to darkness.

Mother and Father have prayed and left. The priest has promised that he will keep the demons away from their son's sleep this night; Ludwig doubts it.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._ Three seconds closer to sundown. There is no clock in sight, but Ludwig hears it clearly. _Tick. Tick. Tick._

The shadows inch up the eastern walls. _Tick. Tick. Tick._ Surely they're moving too quickly, he thinks. Surely day can hang on just a little longer.

—_son? My son? Can you hear me?_

The priest is speaking to him.

_Come, let us pray._

Ludwig rises unsteadily and joins the priest in a pew. His knees feel sore and cold against the hard floor.

_Dear Lord, please guide this lost child—_

A gust of wind swells and whistles past the windows. The priest pays no heed, but Ludwig glances uneasily out at the darkening sky. The shadows are taller than ever, just a thin band of light left now—

He startles back with a cry.

He has seen a form in the shadows. A familiar figure creeping along the walls, as if he is just outside.

The priest is trying to reach him, but all Ludwig can hear is the wind howling, thrashing through the trees. He glances back at the wall; but the shadows have swallowed the remaining light, leaving everything a gloomy cast of gray.

And then he hears it. The bell. Above them, in the belfry. A death toll.

Cold dread seizes him, makes him rigid. He grips the priest's arm with a strength he did not know he still possessed.

_Do you hear it, do you hear it? He is here, he is coming for me!_

_My son, it is only the wind, the wind through the belfry!_

But Ludwig pays no heed. He is mad with terror, there is no calming him.

—_the wind!—nothing here—God is with us—God will protect you—_

The belfry. The silhouette he never saw. Feet swaying, in the wind. Pale face, dead face. Always pale, now dead. Once beautiful, now terror. Once kind, now cold.

_The bell, the bell, it is ringing for me, it is death to those who hear it—_

—_do not fear—shall secure the bell—it will not ring—_

The priest is gone from his side. Ludwig is left staring up into rafters. The bell tolls on.

_Why Gilbert, why? _ He does not feel the tears on his cheeks._ You were so beautiful—we were so beautiful—we could have been together, forever—why did you—why?_

_No, Ludwig. _That voice, in his bones. Oh God it is close… _I will show you the meaning of forever. Come with me…_

A form at the window, a shadow on the glass. It passes before Ludwig can be sure he saw it.

_Gilbert… brother, please…_ He does not know what he begs for.

A knock on the window behind him. He spins, catches a brief glimpse of a hand, so pale, pressed to the glass. Or was it merely a tree branch?

The bell tolls on. Where is the priest?

Thunder in the distance. But the rumbling sounds as if it comes from the earth, not the sky. Ludwig feels the church floor quake, or maybe it is his own shivering.

A flash of lightning—distant, but enough to illuminate the windows.

He screams.

A silhouette. A man hanging, swaying.

It disappears as quickly as it came.

The doors shudder—the priest did not close them properly when he left. A great gust of wind bangs them open; the flames of the candles sputter, die.

Ludwig trembles in the complete darkness.

He tries to pray. _Lord, help me, keep me from—_

_God has forsaken you, Ludwig. As he forsook me. But I will not. I will not forsake you. Death forsakes no one._

He falls to the floor, shaking and crying in fear. _No, no, I am safe in the church, I am safe here, stay here, it is safe!_

_Death permeates even these walls, Ludwig. Remember? They did not keep me safe, that night. Why should they do any more for you?_

_No, please, Gilbert…_

The bell tolls on. The priest has not returned. It is starting to rain. The wind still howls.

The voice, on the wind. In his bones. _Ludwig, come to me. I am waiting._

Panic grips him. He cannot stay here, to be trapped in this church, this place where his brother died. He springs to his feet and runs out into the night and the rain.

He does not stop. The bell tolls on. The priest is nowhere to be seen.

_Yes, Ludwig, come closer._

He does. He runs, stumbles, until he comes to the gardening shed on the grounds. Where the gravediggers keep their spades.

A spade, a spade—he finds one, takes it. On to his brother's grave, never stopping. He pants in harsh, cold air, slips on the wet ground.

He is here.

He blinks away raindrops, begins to dig.

_Oh yes… brother, come to me._

The soil is softened with the rain, but still the going is hard. He digs, digs, earth, more earth, endless earth. There is no sense of time, only digging, down, down. His muscles burn, his arms shake, he can barely gasp for breath, but he _must _keep digging, he _must._

He knows what they say his brother is. He has heard his parents' whispers, the women in the market. He knows how the priest shushes such talk; the priest who would not consecrate his brother's burial. He has heard the stories told by wizened men around fires. Of strange things, in the night. He knows what happens to those who take their own life. What they become.

_It is only grief—grief is a sickness, it wastes men away—he will recover—think nothing of these superstitions— _This is what the doctor, the priest, have said.

_I've seen this before—brings sickness on whole villages, towns—he is a cursed one—when the dead do not rest—_ That is what the villagers say.

_Thunk._ Something solid. Ludwig sees he has already dug deep, deep down. But how long has it taken? There is no telling. The rain still pours, the sky is still obscured.

He forces aching arms to shovel the dirt and mud away. There is enough space now, to do what needs to be done.

Can he, though? He hesitates, gazes at the lid of the simple casket.

Gilbert is there.

_Yes, brother, I am here. Come, open, let me see the night sky, your face, so young and fresh. Cool air and life-bringing rain—I am insensible to it. Let me bury it under the earth with me, let me take you with me. To that place of sleep so deep, so utter, nothing else is true. Let me show you…_

Ludwig hefts the spade high, brings it down on the casket, once, twice, thrice. The wood cracks. It is softened with rot and rain; he rips it back with bleeding, blistered fingers.

And there is Gilbert.

Even by the dim light of the night it is more horrid than even the nighttime visitations. Shrunken, distended flesh, slipping from the skull. Pale and green and purple and black and shriveled. The stench, the very same Ludwig has smelled each night, ever since… Only stronger now. He gags. He gags and thinks, _this is not my brother. This is not the brother I knew, it cannot be, it is not the right grave—_

But Gilbert's left eye is open, gazing up, _staring _at him.

Ludwig looks into that eye and is lost.

_Remember, Ludwig, remember._

He remembers: Sunrays catching in hair as fine as spider's silk. A turn, a glance over the shoulder, a smile. Eyes that catch the light and glow the bloody color of sky at sunset. A laugh, wild and fearless as the onslaught of rain. Tumbling, grappling in the grass, till the smell of springtime permeates their clothes.

His stare. Across the table, across the room. Eyes that followed him, caressed him. Enveloped him.

Furtive glances, just brushing his skin. Whispers, moist against his cheek: _We are different from the others._

Hands, tentative but determined, under the covers. Sighs and pleas and _shh shh, they'll hear_. Promises sweetly secluded in the shell of his ear; _we'll be together, forever._

_I'm keeping my promise, brother._ But the voice is dead, could not be further from the reckless strains that echo in his memories.

The other eye opens. The socket is full of worms.

_Forever, we said. Forever._

Ludwig is frozen, wants to scream. _No! You're gone! You're dead! You're not… you're not my brother any more… _There is wetness hotter than raindrops on his cheek.

_I am. Forever. That is the bond of blood, of flesh._

Ludwig closes his eyes. _No. No, I can't—I can't go with you…_

He feels something close around his wrist.

A hand. A rotting hand.

His stomach lurches; the bottled scream rips from his throat. He tries to pull away, but the grip is strong, much stronger than a hand of bone and clinging skin should be.

_Let me go! Let me go, Gilbert!_ In his jumbled mind a memory jumps to the fore, of Gilbert pinning him down, tickling him: _let me go, let me go! _ Screams of laughter.

He sobs hysterically. _It's not fair, it's not fair_,_ you're the one who died! You're the one who left me! _ He shouts it in the face of the creature, this thing that was but is not his brother.

The corpse pulls him closer. They are face to face. The stench overwhelms him, blinds him.

_I left so we could be together. In a way we never could on earth, in life. Life is cruel, Ludwig. They would have hunted us, always watching, God looking down on us, on our sins! They would never have let us rest! Death… Oh, Death. Death is peace. Now, we can rest together…_

The mouth opens, gapes. The teeth are crooked, rotting, and maggots have devoured the tongue. The white worms glisten and squirm, more and more of them flooding from the throat, filling the mouth, overflowing.

_How I hunger for you… Come to me…_

Ludwig remembers his brother, beckoning to him with a smile from the other side of a shallow stream, trying to get him to gather his courage and follow him across. _Come on! You're so close, just look at me! Come to me!_

He tries to focus, tries desperately to jerk back, away from the hand, the crawling creatures, their tiny sharp mouths, the noise of eating, consuming. But the hand holds him fast. _No…_ he whimpers. _I'm alive, I'm alive Gilbert! I can't follow you! I don't want to die! Let me go!_

The walls of the hole are slipping, sliding down, eroding with the rain. In a moment of panic Ludwig realizes he will be buried alive if he does not get free. _Gilbert, please! Let me live! LET ME GO!_

_But brother…_ He pulls him closer still, and there are maggots crawling up Ludwig's neck, in his hair—_you have not let me go._

Ludwig stares into that single eye. And suddenly, it is not the face of a corpse. It is his brother. His living brother's face.

The rain is gone. The dirt is gone. The dead, cold grip is gone. Replaced by a warm, strong hand around his. They are in the meadow where they used to play. But it is more beautiful than Ludwig has ever seen it. Sky the color of butter, sun kissing their skin and sparkling tips of grass.

Gilbert looks at him. Not smiling, but waiting.

His skin is soft and warm. The hand, a comfort. Ludwig does not want to let go.

_You have not let me go._

Ludwig's wide eyes sting as he gazes at his brother's beautiful face. He swallows. The warmth of that hand, so familiar, so comforting.

Gilbert is waiting.

Ludwig's fingers loosen. He drops his brother's hand. Gilbert turns, looks back, over his shoulder. For a moment, Ludwig thinks he sees the saddest smile in his eyes.

The sun fades, the sweet smell of wildflowers putrefies. Dirt, rot. He is back in the grave. He gasps, shivers at the cold mud slipping down on him. The dead hand is still on his arm, pulling. The open mouth, the maggots, a hair's breadth away.

He shoves his free hand into his pocket, fingers scrambling. _Where is it, where is it, I know I have it—_

There. A coin.

He tightens his fingers against the cold metal, tugs it from his pocket. The corpse's other hand snares his shirt in its grasp. The head leans forward, the mouth, closer, as if to kiss or eat him.

He cries out; but not in fear. This time it is a cry of determination, bursting from deep within. He plunges his hand forward, into that waiting mouth full of maggots, and lodges the coin between the teeth.

The dead hands freeze, lose their strength. Ludwig shakes them off and pulls back. The eyes, one red, one rotten, widen, and the corpse of Gilbert falls back, sapped of power.

Ludwig's cold-numbed hands scrabble for the spade. He stands over his brother's remains, gazes down, grips the shovel with both hands.

_I'm sorry, Gilbert. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Goodbye._

With all his remaining strength he heaves the tool up, up, blade pointing at the corpse below. He brings it down swiftly. The head is neatly severed at the neck.

Instantly, Ludwig feels a great weight lift from his chest. He is as one waking from a dream; he breathes rain-fresh air as though he has never properly filled his lungs before. And when he looks up into the sky, the clouds have cleared, and he can see every star he used to count in nights of his childhood.

…

The next day they find the priest. On the stairway to the belfry, neck twisted around.

_Good Lord—with the rain last night—the stone was slick— _and more quietly: _the place must be cursed—ever since—you know what happened here before—they say, when the dead do not rest…_

A little later, they find that the grave of another who died in the belfry looks fresher than it ought to. It only encourages the talk.

Finally, some of the older men of the village resolve to dig it up, make sure the dead stay dead.

When they do, they find the decapitated corpse of the deceased, with the head nowhere to be seen. They decide not to tell the others. _In any case, this one will not rise again_, they say.

Ludwig's mother and father are silent when they find him in his bed the next morning, sleeping peacefully. When the doctor comes, he finds his patient to be in remarkably good health. _God has smiled upon your family in the night_, he says.

The priest is buried, a new one comes to the village, without fear of the rumors surrounding his new home and _the belfry—Death has claimed it! _But despite the villagers' talk, nothing extraordinary occurs. The belfry is only a belfry. Eventually the talk dies, though even years later, around fires late at night, wizened men still recall the tale of the night the rumored suicide rose from the grave to seek revenge on the priest who would not consecrate his burial. And somehow the whisper has gotten out: _you know, they never did find the head in that grave…_

And sometimes whispers follow the stern blond man who goes about his work with never a word_—it was his brother, you know—_but he is industrious and keeps to himself; he is not to be reproached.

Ludwig, for his part, is content to be left alone. With his memories. His mother and father have passed on and been buried in the ground in their turn. At night, black dreams do not plague him. Often, he dreams of the meadow, of Gilbert's hand around his. He has forgiven his brother.

And before he goes to sleep, he lays his hand on the smooth wood of the chest he keeps by the bed.

_Good night, Gilbert._

* * *

**A/N:** This story is based on the legend of the Nachzehrer, which has its origins in certain regions of Germany and Poland. It is a life-sucking vampire/ghoul, created after suicide or very violent accidental death. It devours its own shroud and flesh, and in so doing saps the life from its family members and those it knew in life. There are many variants on the folklore, however, so if you're interested in the supernatural or undead I suggest you look up more on this fascinating creature.

I imagine this taking place in an eastern German village in the 18th century, a time when old superstitions were falling out of favor with educated classes, yet still held strong in rural communities.

I know it's a little late for Halloween, but I hope everyone's still in the spirit for something a little creepy thanks to the Hetaween event, if nothing else!


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